


Horizons

by daymarket



Category: The Avengers (2012), White Collar
Genre: Character Study, Crossover, Gen, but not really, let's psychoanalyze fictional characters!, sort-of case!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:39:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daymarket/pseuds/daymarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it comes to the trifecta of lies, law, and love, Neal knows where Peter and Natasha Romanov stand. It's his own position that he's not so sure about. </p><p>Set after 3x11 (White Collar) and pre-film (Avengers). Faint AU (Neal has powers).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Horizons

When Peter finds out in detail what he can do—hell, whenever _anybody_ finds out what he can do—there are always those immediate assumptions. “Oh, that’s how he picks locks so easily,” is an old one, or, “Oh, no wonder you’re such a good thief.” Implied, of course, is the word _cheater_ , at least as far as crime can be considered something you could possibly cheat at. But he lets them think that; it’s easier than explaining the truth. He knows the bad rap that psychics and empaths get, and in his line of work too much attention is a bad thing.

But Peter’s not stupid, and over time, Neal feels less of a need to lie to him—well, not lie. He doesn’t lie to Peter. Even though he lies for a living, something about Peter makes Neal’s skin itch at the idea of a direct lie, and he wonders once or twice if Peter’s got some kind of secret mutation that just so happens to be very Neal-specific. Frankly, he wouldn’t be surprised.

“They tell me things about the people who own them,” Neal says one day as they sit on the backyard patio. Peter’s got his feet up on the table, and he holds himself loosely, relaxed. “Objects reflect their owners.”

“What do you mean?” Peter asks, and he sits up. His fingers tighten on the beer bottle he’s holding, and the chair beneath him stirs to attention: Peter usually relaxes here, but he’ll be vigilant anywhere if there’s the need, and the chair’s belonged to Peter and El long enough to know the signs. “They develop a personality?”

“Not…really,” Neal says cautiously. “It’s not so much a personality as a…” he fumbles for words, trying to figure out how to say it. Kate was the only other person who really knew what he could do, aside from people buried deeply in his past, and she’s gone now. They’re all gone now, and meeting the objects they once owned is an exercise in lonely melancholy. “Look, what I do, it’s not for picking locks. Cops’ handcuffs, they’re like the real thing. Their function is to keep a con trapped, and the cuffs have absorbed enough of the original personality to want to keep to that mandate. I mean, occasionally I get new cuffs that I can coax off, but most of the time, it’s just good old fashioned lock-picking or slipping.”

“You say that they absorb personality,” Peter presses, his eyes keen. “So basically, you can find out about people from the things they own,” he says, and that’s Peter all right, making quick leaps to the logical conclusions. If Neal listens hard enough, he can hear the house stirring to life, warm with the vitality of Peter Burke on the hunt. “What kind of things do they tell you?”

Neal closes his eyes and tilts his head back, letting the whispers of the Burke home sweep over him. They’re familiar enough that he doesn’t need to listen closely to find out what they’re saying. “When you’re working on a case file,” Neal says reflectively after a moment, “the table knows that it’ll be swept clean of dishes to be replaced by files, lots of them, even ones that might only be tangentially relevant. You’ll sit there for hours, and the coffeemaker knows that it’s going to have to work extra hard. Sometimes, when you’re frustrated, you’ll pace. Sometimes you’ll open the back door and just lean against the wall, thinking. If you’re really irritated, you’ll brace your hands against this patio table, like so.” Neal places his hand lightly against the imprint where Peter usually rests his, feeling the table murmur to him about long nights, exhaustion, and a determination to not give up. He’s acutely aware of Peter’s eyes following the movement of his hand, and he wonders if this will change the fragile trust that’s growing between them.

“So you’re an empath,” Peter says after a moment. “Not so much object manipulation as…aural sensitivity.”

Neal shrugs. He’s never thought of himself as an empath. Empaths feel emotions from people. What he does is similar, but there’s enough difference between them that the label doesn’t feel comfortable. “It comes in handy,” he says.

He can practically hear the thoughts going through Peter’s head. He watches Peter steadily as he waits for Peter’s judgement, and the moment ticks by, quiet and tense. He doesn’t quite jump when he hears Peter’s voice, but he does twitch a little bit. “Well,” Peter says at last, his voice mild. “I know a good deal about you and your past. I guess it’s only fair.”

There’s a knot in Neal’s gut that he only half-notices, but he’s acutely aware as it loosens, bringing away tension he honestly hadn’t known he’d had. “Like I said, it’s useful,” he says cautiously after a moment, testing the waters.

“I can imagine,” Peter says. He looks at Neal sidelong. “When did your mutation manifest itself, if you don’t mind me asking? I understand it usually happens at puberty, but it can happen earlier than that. Isn’t it stronger the earlier it manifests?” He pauses and looks guilty. “Sorry. If you don’t want to talk, it’s fine. I’m just curious. El’s the only person I’ve met whose mutation I’ve been able to talk about up close, so yours is a bit of a revelation.”

“Yeah,” Neal says slowly. He looks at Peter carefully. He can’t tell moods directly with his power; objects are more long-term, picking up ingrained habits, and it’s more difficult to discern quicksilver mood changes. But then again, Peter’s not really a quick-tempered guy, prone to temper tantrums and mood swings. “I mean, it’s fine. Yeah. You should know I’ve only ever told Kate about this before, and not all of it, either.” He looks directly at Peter. “It’s not a secret, not really, but I don’t want you to go shouting it to the Bureau.”

Peter gives him a small, sideways smile. “I think I can manage that.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Neal exhales slowly. “I was twelve. It started small…”

Peter wants to know him, Neal thinks as the conversation winds on. Not just his power, not what he can do for the Bureau or how he might use it to con Peter, but _him_. It’s a small realization, but it brings a flush of—well, he’s not sure how exactly to describe it. Satisfaction? Fulfillment?—every time it proves true. It’s a nice feeling, whatever it is.

And it’s true. His extra sense is dead handy to have at times. It’s not a great idea to rely on it unconditionally, but the extra little tidbits it tells him—that tie’s knotted hurriedly with shaking hands, that hidden gun has seen far too much use in hands that are far too eager—help him, and more and more often now, the FBI by extension. Although sometimes, he’ll admit, it can pick up way too many useless facts, some he kind of didn’t want to know. He’s lost count of the number of times the most unlikely objects have told him about their exploits in someone’s nether regions.

In their latest operation, Neal can’t quite make up his mind whether or not it’s useful. Sophia Carolin is an international art dealer and telekinetic, and from the FBI’s dossiers on the subject, he knows that she’s a second-generation con: her father was Aaron Carolin, an arms dealer who never got pinned with enough to go to jail. Sophia Carolin’s business is legitimate enough when viewed from above, but about a day in, Neal can confirm the FBI’s suspicions that the works that pass through Carolin’s haunts sometimes have rather dubious origins. The walls whisper to him, telling him of the packages that pass through them and the flurry of activity that heralds their arrival. Some of the packages are inanimate, placed reverently away from harm until a sale is arranged. Others are more organic in nature, and they have a tendency to leave in rather more organic pieces.

It’s a bit more than he wanted to know, really.

Still, it’s all the more reason to put a stop to it.

Neal’s posing as an art dealer with interesting background pursuits (read: forgery), which seems to be a vacancy on Carolin’s crew at the moment. His first meeting with Carolin takes place in an overpriced restaurant with Carolin and two stone-faced assistants. He can feel the subtle psychic probing coming from one of them, and Carolin’s not exactly shy about using her powers, either. The restaurant tells him that this is a regular haunt for not just Sophia, but for the Carolin family in general, although lately, it’s been remodeled to more fit her tastes. One of the assistants, a red-headed woman, has two knives hidden under her (if Neal might say so) absolutely gorgeous dress, and both of them sing with the taste of blood. He tries not to listen to them too closely. The other assistant, a young-looking brunette, carries no weapons, but she’s probably the psychic and no less formidable. Fortunately, she doesn’t pry too hard this time at least, which lets Neal keep a clear mind instead of trying to fend her off.

The deal’s innocuous enough when viewed from the outside: Neal (or Nathan, really) has paintings to sell, and Carolin’s here to acquire him. Near the end of the evening, though, Carolin says delicately, “I understand you have a wide variety of pursuits.” And that’s Neal’s in, although getting the records that Peter needs is going to be a trickier matter.

“I dabble,” he says casually, leaning back. He reaches for the wineglass, running his fingers lightly over the crystal. This set is new, he thinks, and carries a clear, pure note that’s untainted by previous patrons. He lifts it to his lips and drains it. “What do you have in mind?”

Carolin looks him up and down. The wineglass is eased from his fingers and the wine bottle pours via telekinesis, a delicate balancing act that speaks of Carolin’s control and power. “Our gallery in Amsterdam has a commercial component,” she says casually, “and we find ourselves in need of a person who can produce high-quality reproductions for our boutiques. I thought you might have some contacts.”

It’s all perfectly innocent. A gallery that sells prints and framed canvas replications to wealthy tourists is nothing unusual. But Neal’s hung Nathan out on a pole and waved his credentials about, and they both know that _commerical component_ can mean any number of things. “Sure,” he says. “I’ll see if I know a guy.”

She smiles at him, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. The diamonds in her necklace whisper softly to him, _approvalmoneypainRED_.

“We’re in,” Neal reports to Peter later that night. “I’m going to meet up with her tomorrow.” He pauses, trying to figure out to phrase his next sentence. He’s met his share of bad guys; hell, you don’t become a world-famous art thief by petting puppies. Prison wasn’t exactly a cakewalk either. In fact, maybe it’s through the combination of his experiences with shady characters with the insights that his mutation provides him with that he can recognize Carolin’s kind: climbing steadily, but still clawing for something that’s just out of reach.

“That’s how a lot of cons operate,” Neal says. “I mean, you don’t stop till you’ve reached rock bottom. And sometimes not even then.”

Peter tilts his head. “Recognizing a kindred spirit?”

Neal looks sharply at Peter. “Like I said,” he says after a moment, “she’s trying for something more.”

Peter’s gaze is steady, and he nods. “Do you know what?”

Neal shrugs. “Fame? Wealth? A poodle made out of diamonds? Could be anything.” He pauses, thinking about the knives hidden beneath the redhead’s clothes and the warm impression of fingers around the handle. “She’s carrying an awful lot of firepower, though,” he says slowly. “I mean, when you deal with huge sums of money, it’s always safe to be prepared. But I think she’s buckling down for a whole lot more than that.”

“Aaron Carolin dealt in arms,” Peter suggests. “Maybe his daughter’s carrying on the family legacy?”

“Maybe,” Neal says, considering the possibility. “Aaron Carolin’s got to be ninety now, so yeah, it’s possible. That’s not white collar, though, is it?” He looks sidelong at Peter. “You know guns aren’t really my thing.”

Peter nods. “I can tip off a couple of other departments to keep an eye out, but as far as I know, there’s never been any hard evidence found that connects Sophia to her father’s work. Apparently the old man’s pretty tight-fisted with his money, anyway, and it’s not too far a stretch to think that he’d do the same with his hard-earned contacts.”

He doesn’t look away from Neal, and Neal raises an inquiring eyebrow. “Something on your mind?”

“Can you handle this?” Peter asks. Neal rolls his eyes, but just a little: it’s nice to hear the question, even though it does sound a little patronizing.

“I’m not going to fall over,” Neal says dryly. “Besides, dealing with bad guys keeps me sharp. Or, uh, bad women in this case.” He blows out a breath. “I’m actually kind of impressed. I mean, she’s a woman fighting for dominance in the boys’ club and doing a pretty good job, actually. It can’t be easy.”

“Sounds almost like you sympathize,” Peter says.

“She’s carving a niche out for herself where it’s almost impossible to do so. Fish out of water and all that,” Neal says, and yeah, that look from Peter is definitely loaded. “What? I’m just saying, I’m not blaming her if she’s wary.”

“Hmm. Carolin’s got a psychic, right?”

“Yeah,” Neal says with a shrug. Telepaths are uncommon and there’s somewhat of a social stigma around them, but despite that (or because of that, maybe), Neal finds that an awful lot of well-off criminals tend to have at least one or two if they aren’t psychic themselves. Crime leads to paranoia, apparently, which is understandable. “Shields are fine, mother hen. Anything else?”

Peter snorts. “Aren’t we cocky today,” he says, but there’s warmth in his voice. “Yeah. I can cross-reference Sophia Carolin with the other departments, but you’re still going to be our primary way in. We need her records if we’re going to do a clean take-down.” He looks at Neal in a considering way for a moment before adding, “Going to keep you off-anklet for a little while longer. If she wants you to go with them tomorrow, do it. We won’t be far behind.”

“You think she’s going to run an in-house forging operation?”

“Probably. If she’s already paranoid, she’s probably the type to want to have as much control as possible.” Peter looks sideways at Neal. “You’ve got your mental shields up?”

Neal flaps a hand at Peter. “Ye of little faith. Peter, I’m hurt.”

“Hey, it never hurts to be careful,” Peter says. The levity fades out of his eyes slowly to be replaced by utter seriousness, and Neal can almost echo Peter’s next words: “Be careful, Neal.”

Neal sobers up at the stern admonition. “Sure,” he says is a quieter voice, seeking out the steady presence of Peter’s gun. Hidden under Peter’s jacket, the gun is reassuringly solid, much like the man himself.

He’s not a gun guy, but for Peter, he’ll make an exception.

((()))

Neal prides himself on knowing people, but Peter’s evidently picked up a few tricks when it comes to studying crooks. Sure enough, after one more cat-and-mouse meeting, Carolin—or more accurately, one of Carolin’s associates—promptly kidnaps Neal. His new accomodations aren’t entirely unpleasant, but being a prisoner without Peter on call is unnerving all the same. He doesn’t even have an FBI-issue watch or pen, as all his toys have been taken away. The room he’s in is impersonal, a guest room: there are faint, very faint impressions of its previous occupants, but evidently no one’s ever stayed long enough to make the room remember them. It’s a vaguely ominous sign.

It’s pretty simple, on the surface at least. Neal passes to Carolin a couple of his best forgeries and sets out to craft a few more. No biggie, and hopefully, no guns involved, either. No one’s watching him, officially, but Neal can hear the hidden cameras and microphones. They’re trying to be sneaky (hence the whole hidden bit), but he can catch their muted chatter nonetheless.

He’s trying to figure out the best way to block the one near the largest window without catching too much suspicion when the door opens, and the formidable redhead from his first meeting with Carolin enters. He turns around, putting on a wide smile, a conman’s smile, too genial to be genuine. “Afternoon,” he says casually. “Good to see you again.”

The redhead smiles back, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s in a midnight blue dress that emphasizes her curves. It looks incredible on her and also incredibly impractical. Neal sweeps her up and down with his eyes, making it obvious. Nathan, his alias, is a bit of a lech, and whatever problems Neal’s got right now, he’s not amateur enough to let it bleed through. “Likewise,” she says.

“Great setup you’ve got here,” Neal offers.

She inclines her head. “If there’s anything else we can do, let us know.”

“Yeah,” Neal drawls, letting himself drop extravagantly onto the overly fancy couch. “I’ll let you know. This is all really nice, by the way,” he adds, waving a hand around. Might as well go for broke, he figures. He injects the right amount of indignation and wounded pride into his voice before adding, “But I’m not one for the theatrics. Seriously, I have a phone. You could’ve just called instead of setting up this whole shebang.”

“We like to be careful,” the woman says. Her hands are clasped demurely in front of her, but she’s anything but. Neal leans closer, focusing more intently on her under the guise of visually feeling her up. The dress is new and designer, too new to pick up impressions from its owner. The heels, though, they’ve been everywhere with her—from marble and fine plush carpets, sure, but also through sand and concrete. They know her stride intimately: sometimes it’s a light, flirty sashay, and sometimes it’s hard and calculated, right before the smash through bone to floor. And that scarf. The pretty little scarf is stronger than it looks, containing quicksilver impressions of hands around the edges, tightening, struggling flesh in the center.

“Mr. Allen?”

Neal blinks, pulling himself away from the scarf and the memories it holds. He’d zoned out, he realizes, and apparently spent the better part of the past minute or so staring at the scarf. Which also happens to be artfully arranged across her chest. Her very nice chest, not that he’s noticing. Which…fits with his alias, so really, no real loss. “Sorry,” he says, fumbling for a moment before quickly regaining his poise. “Can you blame me?” he adds, throwing in a dash of cockiness.

Her mouth twitches upwards in something that’s not quite a smile. “If you’re free, Mr. Allen, Ms. Carolin would like to speak with you.”

Neal spreads his hands. “What else do I have to do?” he says. “And I would never say no to a lady’s invitation.” There, he thinks. Let them think that he underestimates them. He meets the woman’s eyes. “Afraid you have me at a disadvantage, though. What’s your name, lovely lady?”

“Nadia,” she says, polite and implacable. She doesn’t offer a last name.

It doesn’t take his extra sense to tell that she’s lying. Then again, so is he, so it’s not like he’s in any position to judge. He pushes himself up from the couch, making his way over to her in an insouciant swagger. The door is keypad locked, and she evidently knows enough to block his view as she taps in the numbers. “So,” he says as they make their way down a plain, unassuming hallway. “What’s a girl like you doing in this kind of place? Kind of dangerous, isn’t it?”

She doesn’t look at him. “I get by,” she says. He waits, but apparently that’s it. Not one for conversation, evidently.

“So, you and Sophia,” he says after a moment of silence. He deliberately uses Carolin’s first name in a display of brashness. “You two are quite a pair. Plus or minus your brunette friend. It’s totally Charlie’s Angels, and I’m liking the whole femm fatale thing, by the way. How long have you been with Sophia?”

He’s playing with fire here. Her stride tightens, and her heels brace themselves in preparation. For a moment he wonders giddily if she’s going to whip off her scarf and strangle him, which would be unfortunate, seeing as he really likes breathing.

“Just over a year,” she says crisply right before pushing open an ornate oak door. Neal brushes a hand along the door, feeling the promise of secrets lurking inside the wood. He wonders vaguely if he should feel flattered, maybe—after all, Carolin took the trouble of bringing him to her personal little mansion as opposed to stuffing him inside some dingy basement. Good sign or bad? But no time to ponder about it now; Carolin’s seated at a magnificent table, the brunette behind her to the right. Nadia, whatever her real name is, takes her place to the left.

Interesting. The room shapes itself around the occupants, embracing or rejecting them depending on familiarity. Carolin’s rooted here; this is her home and roost. The same applies to the brunette, although to a lesser degree. Nadia, though—she’s an anomaly. An efficient, welcome anomaly, but one nonetheless.

“Mr. Allen,” Carolin says, breaking Neal out of his thoughts.

Neal waves at her. “Hi,” he says, putting on his best cocky smile. He’d swear at this point, but there’s not time; he’s wasted precious seconds by looking around the room like an idiot. Fooling psychics, especially if one isn’t a natural shield, can get tricky. But there are ways to hide, and he’s learned one or two in his time.

Nathan Allen. _Nathan Allen_. That’s who he is…

The brunette is looking at him, and Neal can feel the tightening pressure that signifies a psychic sweep. Neal sinks down under the alias, letting the history and memory and personality of Nathan Allen rise to the surface. It happens in shades, slowly sinking underneath the surface of the all-encompassing lie, and the change is sudden and sharp—he’s Nathan Allen, art dealer and forger, all-around misogynist and asshole. And they’re scanning him, a _woman_ is scanning him, which just will not do—

“Fuck you,” Nathan snarls as the brunette drives in for the kill. “Is this how you do business, Carolin?” he adds through gritted teeth, clutching at his temples as if he can physically claw the sweep from his brain. “Anyone ever tell you you need to get laid, seriously—”

“This is the pleasant way,” Carolin says calmly. “You understand.”

No, he really doesn’t, but fucking hell, he’s not going to give up. Say what you want, but Allen’s a stubborn bastard. He dives over his memories, hiding them from the sweep and stubbornly pushing back until the psychic touch edges and backs away. It’s a paltry victory as the brunette gives a satisfied nod to Carolin. “Thank you,” Carolin says absently. “Good. Now we can do some real business, Mr. Allen.”

Nathan sits up, his hands balling into fists. “I’ve half a mind to walk out,” he says, but it’s an empty threat. Short of diving out the window, he’s rather stuck here, and Nadia, at least, will probably shiv him before he makes it two steps away. As if Carolin can read his thoughts, she smiles.

“Let’s not play childish games,” she says. “I need a forger, Mr. Allen. You’d like to be rich. If you’re as good as you seem, we can make each other very happy.”

“I’ll make you happy,” Nathan mutters rebelliously. As retorts go, it’s not the wittiest.

Carolin makes a _tsk_ sound as if speaking to a rebellious child, and Nathan bristles. “Really, Mr. Allen, I’m offering you a good deal. It’s simple—I’ll provide the supplies, you paint, and everybody walks away satisfied. You’ll have a sizable fortune in your pocket. Wouldn’t you like to get out of small-time dealing? I can offer you much more.”

“What’s the catch? I stay here as your prisoner? What good’s a fortune to me if I can’t spend it?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Carolin says. She looks amused, which irritates Nathan even more. “You have skills, Mr. Allen. I’m offering you better value than turning tricks.”

Nathan sucks in a sharp breath through his nose. It’s not quite a sniff of contempt—for all his flaws, he’s not stupid. “What’re you offering?”

“Twenty thousand apiece,” Carolin says.

“Thirty, and half up front.”

“Mr. Allen,” Carolin says, “that’s up for debate in the future. But for now, I don’t think you’re in much position to argue.” She cocks her head slightly. “It’s been very pleasant so far, and I’d love to keep it that way.”

“I bet,” Nathan mutters. “Fine. But I’m going to need some supplies. And a better room with some light.”

“Nadia will take a list of whatever you need,” Carolin says. “If you’re displeased with your accomodations, I’m sure we can adjust that.”

There’s a hint of menace to her voice, the first cruel note behind the cool veneer. Nathan shudders, feeling a shiver work its way down his spine. The room is bracing itself, as if waiting for a sudden burst of violence that it’s seen many times before—

—how does he know that?

“Nadia, show him out,” he can hear Carolin say, but he’s distracted by the sudden buzz of— _something_ —coming from the room around him. The chair he’s in, well-made but relatively plain, used to be Sophia’s, and it creaks from all the times she leaned forward, eager to listen and learn. This room is now Sophia Carolin’s office, but it holds memories of family, dysfunctional though it might be, and as much as a room can, pines for those are now elsewhere.

“Fuuuuck,” Nathan breathes as Nadia leads him back out the hallway.

“Hmm?” Nadia says, looking at him sharply.

“Nothing,” Nathan says hastily.

Nadia stops as they return to the room he left. “Write up a list of supplies,” she says crisply as she keys in the code. “I’ll return to fetch them in an hour.”

“No problem,” Nathan leers at her. Her expression doesn’t change as she shuts the door in his face.

((()))

Neal resurfaces slowly. It’s as if he’s looking at the world from deep underwater, and he’s only now slowly and laboriously moving his way back to clarity and control. When the world finally swims back into focus, Neal finds himself slumped in a chair, staring down at his hands as if he’s never seen them before.

“Whoa,” he breathes, trying to shake the last of the disorientation away, peeling away the layers of Nathan Allen. I’m Neal. Neal Caffrey. Right.

And did I really say what I said to Nadia? Oh, man. Note to self: when this is all over (and I’m still in one piece), don’t reuse Nathan Allen as a shield. Guy’s a douche.

Okay. Back to work.

Neal sits up, doing a quick check to find all the hidden cameras. There’s one that’s almost pointed right at him, and he hopes that he didn’t do anything overly stupid as Nathan during the transition for Carolin to gawk over. He’ll have to send Nadia a fruit basket, or at least something nice for when she goes to prison.

Prison. Speaking of which, where’s Peter? _We won’t be far behind_ , Peter had said, and Peter keeps his promises. Neal knows this, if nothing else: it’s an anchor, one to cling onto in the storm of changing identities and exploding planes. He tilts his head back and exhales slowly, centering himself on that absolute conviction. Then, he casts himself out, searching for Peter’s signal.

He’s actually not that great at long-distance sensing, but he’s grown familiar with the imprints that Peter’s objects tend to develop after a while: steady, dependable, and sometimes, when Neal crosses the line, angry with and for him. Maybe it’s the product of too much practice or some other mildly dysfunctional reason that Neal doesn’t like to think about, but it doesn’t take Neal long to find Peter now that he’s looking for him: he can’t tell the exact distance, but close. Within half a mile of this mansion. And he’s wearing his lucky tie, which is nice.

“Okay,” Neal breathes out. Something loosens inside of him, and he lets himself sag a little in the chair. He’s not _relieved_ , exactly, because Peter’s always there; he’s more…well, there’s no exact word for it. Neal exhales slowly, slightly bemused with himself. If you’d told him seven years ago that he’d be glad to see Peter Burke on his tail, he’d have told you that you were crazy. But of course, seven years ago was another story altogether: he had Kate and the con. Now…different story, much? He’s not really sure which situation is preferable.

Neal shakes away the the melodramatic introspection. Right. First things first, which is to make a list for Nadia. Neal looks around for pencil and paper and finds them both on a nearby stand. Pulling them closer, he spends a while jotting down the various supplies he’ll need, making sure to pick several colors that he knows can only be acquired at a certain specialty store. Hey, he’s an artist, he has needs.

He’s musing over how many types of red he’ll strictly speaking need when the door opens and Nadia reenters. It didn’t seem possible, but she looks more forbidding than ever, and Neal finds himself scootching a little bit backwards in his seat. “Hey,” he says, making his voice as amiable as possible. “Almost done.”

“Of course,” Nadia says. Neal tilts his head down towards the list, but out of the corner of his eye, he peeks at Nadia. He’s not that surprised to find that she’s looking squarely at him. As his eyes inadvertently meet hers, she raises an impeccable eyebrow. Oh yeah, she’s onto him. The gesture feels like an unspoken interrogation, and Neal raises his head, giving her his best “you caught me” grin. “The list,” she says. “We’ll get the supplies to you by the end of the day.”

“Sure,” he says, waving the list in front of him. And, well, why the hell not: “Any excuse to see you again. _Nadia_.”

It’s like poking a bear with a stick, but he’s got a slightly morbid curiosity egging him on now. Maybe it’s true what Alex told him all those years ago, that all cons recognize each other on some level. At any rate, while he’s not sure who exactly she’s working for, the way Carolin’s room had responded to her says that she’s a stranger to this household. Hell, maybe he’s crazy; maybe she just worked her way up recently, or she’s a new recruit from whatever mob Carolin runs. Maybe he’ll never know, most especially since it might not even matter.

She smiles at him, and it’s a good smile, one that he has to strain to tell whether or not it’s fake. “We’ll see, Mr. Allen,” she says. “Anything’s possible.”

The way she says the last two words sounds like a dare, a challenge, a promise. Neal swallows hard, letting a little bit of Nathan rise to the surface. “Anytime for you,” he says.

Oh, it is _on_.

She doesn’t falter. “I like intrigue,” she says. She sounds just the tiniest bit coy, and Neal lets his grin slip loose just a little bit. Illusion for illusion, it’s only fair. “I think you’ll find that it’s hard for you to entertain me, though.”

“Won’t your girlfriend be angry if you get out of bounds? Maybe yank on the leash a bit?” Neal says, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m not the one who wears a leash,” she says sweetly.

Neal’s expression doesn’t change. He’s better than that. But he does blink—just once. It’s not much and most people, hell, a good number of cons, too, wouldn’t know it for what it is. But her eyes are fixed on his, and he knows with a sharp, sudden clarity that she’s recognized it as the tell it is.

Well…shit.

“Careful with the kinky talk, we’ve only just met,” he says lightly, his mind whirling. How does she know? he wonders. Maybe the FBI alias machine is broken. Maybe one of Carolin’s goons stalked him and saw him with Peter. Or maybe she just—guessed?

“I’ll take the chance,” she says coolly.

Time to make some guesses of his own. “Isn’t fooling Carolin a little chancy, though?” he says, pitching his voice lower to keep his words indistinct from the hidden microphones. “Does she know that you like to bat for the other team?”

His eyes are on her face, but his attention is elsewhere, honing in on the objects she wears. Her face gives nothing away and he doesn’t expect her to be that obvious, not when she’s prepared. Those heels, though, acutely tuned to her as they are, know the exact moment she tenses. He can feel Nadia, whatever her real name is, take her measure of him and _know_. It’s the old game: I know you know, you know I know, I know that you know that I know…

Neal half-prepares himself to be garotted on the spot. He widens his smile, determined to go out like a good con should—like Moz told him, old cons never die, the smiles just fade away. The moment seems to stretch out interminably, but maybe that’s just the adrenaline talking. It seems like an age before he hears her voice through the haze of focus, low and close. “Sophia doesn’t like sharing, true,” she says quietly, “but she’s far more inclined to go after the sharer than the shared.”

Neal shakes his head. “I didn’t say anything,” he says, cheery and bright. “Just wondering if a quick romp in the sheets is out, that’s all.”

She leans back. There’s a razor-thin smile on her face, one that’s worthy of the Mona Lisa in its ambiguity. “Oddly enough, I have the feeling we’re not compatible,” she says.

“You know what, I was just thinking that. What do you say we call it quits?” Neal says amiably. “I get the feeling you’re not really my type.”

“Likewise,” she says. She rises in a single fluid movement, and Neal finds himself exhaling slightly in relief as she moves away. “You should watch your step, Mr. Allen,” and oh yeah, there’s no missing the slight way she stresses _Mr. Allen_. “It would be a tragedy if such a wit like yours was lost to the world.”

That’s not ominous at all, obviously. But two can play at that game, Neal thinks wryly. “I’m a bag of surprises, Nadia,” he says, letting the syllables of her name roll over his tongue. “You know the world would miss me too much. Talent always has a way of shining through the cracks.”

It’s hardly subtle, but it’ll do. Nadia looks at him, and he can feel the degree of cool calculation in her gaze. “We’ll have to put yours to good use, then,” she says. Her hand darts forward, and Neal can’t help surpress his flinch at her movement. Instead of killing him, though, her fingers instead close around the list and tug it away. Her raised eyebrow pretty much conveys it all. “I’ll get these to you soon,” she says pleasantly enough, but Neal has the sinking feeling that she’s somehow won this particular tussle. “I’ll see you later, Mr. Allen.”

“Yep,” Neal breathes as the door closes behind her. “Later.”

((()))

In the wake of her exit, he finds himself reaching for Peter’s familiar presence. Peter’s solidity is a welcome relief, and Neal’s about 99% sure that Peter is actually Peter in a way that he was never sure of anybody else, not even Kate, which is a serious bonus in a situation like this. He casts out and sits up a little bit with surprise as he realizes that Peter’s gotten closer since the last time he checked. That’s good news. He thinks.

He reaches out for the hidden microphones and cameras, nudging them slightly. Not much luck there: the cameras and microphones have been around long enough to understand their duty, and no amount of persuasion from a stranger (read: hostage) is going to make them change their minds. Fine, Neal thinks, exasperated. I can work around that.

He stands up and begins a long, idle ramble around the room. Whoever set up the room did a damn good job, as there are no blindspots. Doesn’t he can’t make a few, though. He’d eyed the one near the largest window earlier, and now he busies himself with artfully rearranging the hideous vases to create a little patch of seclusion that covers a quarter of the window. He can’t do much about the microphones without overtly forcing them, but the window will be enough.

Neal props himself casually up against the window, surveying the vista. Here’s the tricky part: he’s good at sensing emotions from objects, not so good at manipulating, and definitely not so good when it comes to manipulating them over a distance. Now, though, he closes his eyes and reaches out to Peter’s lucky tie. It’s an old tie that stretches back to Peter’s college years, though, and he’d asked Peter to wear it for that precise reason.

C’mon, he thinks. Just a little tug…

He finds it mildly ironic that he’s using Peter’s tie as a leash to get him to where he can sight Neal from the window, but hey, whatever works. Good thing that Carolin was nice enough to give a window, too—Neal would have to come up with some other trick if she’d stuck him in a basement. Neal grins a little bit as he feels the tie yield to his direction, and he wanders casually away from the window as he focuses on getting Peter to the right vantage point. It takes about ten minutes, all told, by which time Neal’s wandered back to the window and positioned his hand in the blindspot of the cameras.

 _C wants me to forge,_ he signs, hoping that Peter’s got his high-powered binoculars on. _C’s assistant gone out to get supplies, pass stuff through specialty. Will probably stay here for a while._ He pauses, wondering if he should tell Peter about Nadia. In another time—hell, maybe as recently as just a couple months ago—he would have let it go. Things are different now, though. _C’s assistant, Nadia, seems off. Do bg check._

He repeats the message twice, hoping that Peter’s got it. Done, he lowers his hand and exhales slowly, looking around the room. He’s done long cons before, he reminds himself. Even if he can’t go home at the end of the day, this situation is nothing new. Never mind that he’s in an even more precarious position than usual, never mind that he’s stuck here with unfamiliar objects and people. He can handle it.

Still. It hurts, a little.

((()))

TO: p.co@shield.gov

 

You have received a message from an undisclosed recipient. Click the link below to view the message. This is an automated email. Please do not reply at this address.

 

MESSAGE:

 

Attached: PIC001.jpg

 

P:

 

What do we have on this guy? Name’s Nathan Allen. Probably an alias. Do a full check, I want the works.

 

-N

((()))

Apart from the whole “we’re keeping you prisoner” bit, life in Carolin’s mansion is actually pretty decent. Nobody tries to beat him up, which is always nice. And surprisingly enough, no one breaks his cover, though he’d waited with bated breath for Nadia to turn him in. He didn’t really think she would—she’s got a game of her own she’s playing; he’s certain of it—but there’s always that unfortunate difference between theory and reality.

But she doesn’t say anything. If her eyes follow him just that more intently in his meetings with Carolin, well, there’s no harm in looking. He does find it somewhat disconcerting how all her outfits (and she has plenty, each of them fabulous and fashionable) carry the faint but distinct aura of death about them. If it’s not a scarf garrotte, it’s the imprint of knives or the burn of gunpowder.

But then again, he supposes, it’s not like the rest of the assignment is a bed of roses, either. Carolin doesn’t exactly let him wander the grounds, but Neal’s had enough practice that he can do a limited amount of sensing from a distance. It helps, too, that the house is layered with memories—he’d noticed earlier that this was Carolin’s mansion, and it doesn’t take him long to connect the dots and realize that this isn’t just Carolin’s mansion, this is _the_ Carolin mansion. The Carolin family mansion, where Sophia grew up. And not just Sophia—her brother, Joseph.

Joseph hasn’t been around for a while. And after a stroll in the garden, it’s not hard to figure out why.

Neal muses that there are probably more elegant ways to start a family feud, but for the Carolins at least, smashing a 17th century stone cherub seems to do the trick quite nicely. He gives the mended cherub a surreptitious pat on the head as he sits by the fountain and winces as the memory of rage, strong and visceral enough to leave a mark even after so long, sweeps through him at the physical contact.

He gives the cherub a wide berth after that.

He’s not here to psychoanalyze the Carolin family. He’s here because he’s got a job to do, and there’s Peter waiting in the sidelines (well, white van) to gallantly sweep in and arrest the pants off of everybody in the nearby vicinity. He clings to that thought as he puts the finishing touches on a Manet, as he slides under Nathan Allen’s skin and winces at the mental aftertaste every time he surfaces. It’s the job; he can handle this, easy.

This mantra fails to be any of reassurance, though, when he’s digging through Carolin’s computer and the door swings open to reveal Nadia in all her exquisitely tailored glory. For one frozen moment, they’re looking at each other: Neal, sitting easy in Carolin’s chair and fiddling with Carolin’s computer; Nadia, one hand on the doorknob and the other hand doubtlessly reaching for a painful weapon of some sort.

The words _oh, shit_ probably don’t even begin to cover it.

“You,” she says levelly after a moment, “are an idiot.”

Neal gets the distinct impression that she’s restraining herself from saying a whole lot more. The room is humming with tension, whispering _dangerdangerkilltheintruder_ in a way that _really_ grates on Neal’s nerves, seeing that he’s the intruder in question—and that’s all he gets to think before Nadia, though a good half-foot shorter than he is, slams him into the wall. Her arm pins across his throat, more immovable than a bar of iron. “I should just kill you,” she says, sounding speculative and infuriatingly calm.

“You really shouldn’t,” Neal gasps, his fingers scrabbling uselessly at the edge of her arm. “Please?” he manages, his voice going up into a high, somewhat unmanly whine. Considering that he can’t really breathe, though, he counts even that as a major accomplishment.

She studies him, eyes narrowed. “ _Dolbo yeb_ ,” she mutters. “You and your friends need to learn the meaning of subtlety. Or at least get less conspicuous vehicles than a gigantic white van.”

“What white van,” Neal wheezes.

She gives a look that says, _really_? Evidently taking pity on him, pulls her arm away and lets him drop to the ground. He stays there for a moment, focusing on sucking in deep lungfuls of air. Glorious air. Beautiful air. “What’re you talking about?” he manages at last.

Nadia’s lips tighten. “Let’s stop this charade,” she says finally. “You’re Neal Caffrey, a convicted bond forger and alleged art thief, and your friends in the van are the FBI. Now that that’s established, we can skip over the part where you feign innocence and I interrogate you. I’m doing you a favor, because I suspect you wouldn’t like the kind of interrogation I can do, yes? So let’s settle this matter here and now: this isn’t an FBI case. Back out.”

Neal picks himself up slowly, warily. He looks her up and down, cataloging what she’s wearing: a gorgeous pantsuit this time, with approximately twelve not-so-gorgeous knives stashed about her person. He reaches forward mentally to touch the knives and winces a little at the soft, sibilant whisper. “You’ve got better sources than I do, evidently,” he says after a moment. “Afraid you have me at a bit of a disadvantage.”

He takes another deep breath and opens his mind to the knives again. It’s a sad fact of life that a lot of the people he seems to meet have very personal histories tied up in their weapons, and Nadia turns out to be no exception. “It’d be dumb to try to fight my way out of a room with an assassin trying to stop me, huh?” he says slowly. “Especially…especially one who’s been trained practically since birth. In…” he blinks, trying to place the echoes of words long past embedded in the knives’ auras. “Russia? Russia.”

Nadia’s still for a moment. “At least you still have some sense of self-preservation left,” she says at last, a little dryly. “And a few tricks up your sleeve, too.”

“That’s me,” Neal agrees breathlessly. “Tricky.” He rubs a hand across his throat, trying to ease the ache. “Look, I’m just a working stiff trying to, you know, bust your boss for international art smuggling. And I know it’s kind of hypocritical of me, but I swear, I’m on the side of the good guys.” He pauses and then adds, “Like you.”

He tries to sound a lot more certain about this than he actually is. Nadia watches him unblinkingly for a moment before she shakes her head. “Good and bad are painfully subjective, but for the purposes of this discussion, let’s assume that I am,” she says. “You can rest assured that this is covered by my unit. You finished Carolin’s painting. So go home and tell your boss the case is closed.”

“Closed how?” Neal challenges. He’s a little bit surprised at his own temerity, but hey, if he’s going to die, he might as well go out with a bang. “Because all I’ve got to go on is your word that things are handled here.”

“My word is what’s keeping you from being dragged in front of Carolin and tortured,” Nadia says calmly. “If you don’t like the easy way, though, the hard way is—”

“No no no,” Neal says hastily. “Easy way. I _like_ the easy way. But—” he grits his teeth as his newly born conscience, stoked by that warm reminder of Peter in his mental radius, urges him to continue, suicidal as it might be. “Look, I have a boss, too.”

“The fabled Agent Burke,” Nadia says, which piques Neal’s interest. Peter’s _fabled_? Nice. Speaking as a renowned international art thief, the two of them could have a lot to talk about. “He’ll have to settle.”

“Wait,” Neal says. “Look, what’re you planning here? You’re an assassin and spy, undercover as a bodyguard-slash-assistant for an art thief with serious family issues and a propensity for violence. You’re not here to kill Sophia because you’d’ve done it already, right? Is it Sophia’s contacts you’re after? But she deals primarily in art, which I’m guessing isn’t exactly high-priority that they’d send assassins out. So you’re after something else, something that Sophia can get you to. What are assassins interested in? Weapons and drugs, most likely. Sophia doesn’t deal with those, though, and she—” he stops, his mind whirring frantically.

Right, but Sophia’s not the only criminal in the family, is she? Her father’s a much bigger fish in the criminal pond.

“Aaron Carolin,” Neal says out loud. “He’s an arms dealer, right? But he’s retired and ninety years old, so if you’re after him, you’re a bit too late. Is Sophia branching out her business? Or is she trying to revive dear old dad’s contacts? Or—money. Aaron’s fortune, is that it? Sophia’s going to inherit, and you’re here to redirect the funds? Why?”

Nadia’s silent for a moment. “Interesting hypothesis,” she says after a moment.

Neal stares at her when she doesn’t say anything else. “What, is that it?”

“I can neither confirm or deny,” she says blandly. “Either way, I meant what I said. When Carolin gives the opportunity to leave, as she will either tomorrow or the day after, I suggest you take it.”

“Or I could tell her about you,” Neal says. It’s a wild gamble, and his heartrate speeding up sharply as he steps into the void. “Spill the beans. I might not have the whole picture, but I’m guessing that it’s close enough that your plan just might crumble.”

She doesn’t pull out a knife. She doesn’t have to. The blades know her intentions, and their sudden, sharp anticipation is painful to taste. “Interesting, making threats to an assassin,” she says softly. “Be careful, Mr. Caffrey. If I killed you here and now, I doubt Carolin would blink an eye.”

Neal takes a deep breath, picking his next words carefully. “Killing me wouldn’t solve anything,” he says. “Because my people know I’m here, and if I die, they’ll ruin your op a lot more bluntly than I ever could. If you’re going for secrecy here, having the FBI tear open your operation isn’t the way to do it. And you can’t kill off the whole FBI.”

Nadia raises an eyebrow. “I doubt the FBI would shed tears over a convicted felon.”

Her words sting a little, but Neal can shrug them off. They’re not true, or at least they’re not as true as they were, and he knows with absolute certainty that Peter, at least, will overturn mountains to find the truth. “Probably not tears,” he says a little ruefully. “At the very least, the resulting investigation would still be more trouble than you need.”

Nadia doesn’t purse her lips, but she comes close. Finally she says, “All right. What’re your terms?”

Neal wets his lips. “Meet with my boss,” he says. “Let the FBI in on your op, whatever unit you’re from. We’re trying to take Carolin down, and I’m guessing that you are, too. Let’s work together.”

“You’re unduly optimistic,” Nadia observes. “I’ve seen enough of interagency squabbles for a lifetime.”

“Peter won’t squabble,” Neal says. He considers his words and then adds, “Well, maybe. But he’ll be fair.”

Nadia looks at him for a moment, her gaze calculating. She evidently comes to some internal decision, because her next words are, “When Carolin gives you the okay to leave, I suggest you take it.”

“But—”

“Quiet. I’ll meet you…” she tilts her head upwards for a moment, evidently thinking. “In two days’ time. Somewhere relatively private.” After a moment, she names a place, and Neal nods, committing it to memory.

“Carolin won’t catch you?”

She gives him a sliver of a smile. “Stop underestimating me.”

“Trust me, I never did,” Neal says with a shudder.

“Wise man. Now you need to get out of here. Carolin will have your head off if she finds you in this room, and I mean that literally.”

Neal looks at the computer. “Sure I can’t finish copying the files—”

“No. Come on.”

“Okay,” Neal says, allowing himself to be tugged out of the room.

It’s not _quite_ what Peter was going for when they started this particular op (con, sting), but it’ll have to do. Neal’s willing to bet that it’s either this or the scarf garrote.

((()))

“What,” Peter says when Neal breaks the news to him in the Burkes’ kitchen. “You made a deal with her?”

“Deal sounds so…shady,” Neal says airily. Peter gives him a pointed _look_. Neal sighs. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” He shakes his head. “Look, it seemed like our best shot of getting in on this op at all. Did I mention that she was ready to kill me? I’m not all that certain that I didn’t do something phenomenally stupid, okay? I trusted her because…I don’t know. I don’t even know her name. But my—” he twiddles his fingers—“you know, extra sense, told me that she’s not exactly Sophia Carolin’s bestest buddy at the moment. Then I did a little more guessing, and well, you can see what happened.”

Peter sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Neal,” he begins.

“Peter,” Neal replies, tired. “Please tell me you managed to dig up something on her, because otherwise…”

“Yeah, otherwise you’re in so much trouble,” Peter says dryly. “And with your commutation hearing coming up…”

“Thanks for reminding me,” Neal says, just a little bit annoyed. “Look, I know you’ve got a file folder about her inside that drawer.” As Peter looks at him, Neal shrugs and waves his hands vaguely in the air. “My extra sense. Remember? Look, stop deflecting, all right? What do you have on her?”

Peter lets him stew for a moment longer before drawing a slim folder from the kitchen drawer. “Didn’t get much,” he says. “Her real name is Natasha Romanov, and she’s an agent of…” Peter’s eyebrows knit together for a moment as he studies the topmost sheet. “…the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.”

There’s a thoughtful silence for a moment. Finally, Neal says, “What?”

“Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, huh? Let’s just call it SHIELD. It’s officially attached to the government, but there’s a lot of mystery about its existence in general. More secret than the NSA, let’s put it that way.”

Neal pieces together the acronym and nods. “Okay. So what does SHIELD do exactly?”

Peter frowns. “Well, among other things, espionage and quasi-military operations. And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but apparently they also deal with extraterrestial affairs.”

Neal blinks. “What, aliens?”

“Yep,” Peter says with a sigh. “Aliens. Little green men from Mars. Anything superhuman apparently falls under their purview.”

“So…does this mean that Sophia Carolin’s from Venus?”

“Smartass,” Peter says, but there’s not much heart in it. “To be honest, I couldn’t dig up anything really concrete on it. Just a lot of whispers. The woman you met, Natasha, has a long record that’s buried very, very deep. All I could get was her name, really. And her codename: Black Widow.” He sighs, resting his head in his hands. “You had no idea how many favors I had to burn just to get that.”

Neal eases the folder out from underneath Peter’s elbows. “Your sacrifice is appreciated,” he says solemnly. He pages through the contents of the folder. There’s not much, and most of it is blacked out with the obnoxious black censor characteristic of super-secret-spy files. “Well, I can add a couple more things,” he says after flipping through it. “One, she’s been undercover for more than a year. And two, she’s an assassin, a really good one.”

He can feel Peter’s gaze sharpen, and he waves away the unspoken question. “Not because I personally got stabbed or anything,” Neal says. “Just—her knives. Yeah. She had lots of them. Plus some of the stuff she wore had seriously disturbing memories.”

“Did something happen—” Peter begins, but Neal cuts him off.

“Nothing happened,” he says firmly. Well, aside from Nadia—no, Natasha—nearly choking him to death, but hey, he’s alive, so why complain? “And I got her to agree to a meeting without having to trade my intestine for it, so I count that as a good sign.”

“If she shows up,” Peter counters.

“Thank you, you ball of optimism and joy,” Neal mutters. He sets the folder carefully down on the table and smooths his fingers over it, letting it speak to him about all the hands it’s passed through. The not-quite words are blurred, an oddly soothing hum in his head. “Look. Peter…”

He trails off, not sure how to frame his next words. Peter waits for him patiently as Neal tries to organize his thoughts, but they’re slippery in his mind. After spending a whole week in Carolin’s not-so-hospitable hospitality, Neal finds that he has a whole new appreciation of the anchor that the Burkes offer. Here, it’s okay. It’ll _be_ okay.

Neal shakes his head, aware that he’s been quiet for too long. “Nothing,” he says out loud.

Peter’s not really a touchy-feely comfort guy, but he’s not oblivious, either. And at the very least, he tries, and just the effort is something to be treasured. “You okay?” he says gruffly.

“Just tired,” Neal says, rubbing his knuckles against his forehead. “There was a lot of resentment there. It gets to you after a while.”

Peter nods like he gets it. And he probably doesn’t _really_ get it, seeing as he doesn’t have any sort of empathic mutation himself, but Neal trusts that at the very least, he’ll give Neal the space he needs. “Okay,” Peter says quietly. “I’ll skip the lecture, then.” He’s quiet for a moment. “There’s a game on. We could watch it, have a beer, take a load off.”

“Because I’ve suddenly developed an undying passion for basketball and beer?” Neal says dryly. “I’ll pass.”

“Well,” Peter says with a grunt as he gets up, “I’ve got some wine in the fridge for your fussy palate. Not the five-hundred dollar kind you seem to like, but you can probably handle it. So basketball’s out, but what do you say to a movie?”

That sounds good. Neal nods, making his way to the couch. As Peter bustles about in the kitchen, Neal closes his eyes, resting his cheek against the sofa. The sounds of the Burke household surround him in a low, reassuring hum. He never quite realizes how nice it is to be surrounded by familiar objects until the day he’s not: the cool hostility of a strange place (particularly a mark’s place) is always overwhelming after a while, and the Carolin mansion is no exception.

He must’ve checked out for a while, because it seems like no time at all before Peter settles on the couch next to him, the cushions easing down to make him comfortable. Neal cracks open an eye at Peter, and the other man pushes a glass of wine into his hand. Neal gives a nod of thanks before sipping at it. The wine is pretty much just as bad as he expected, but he’ll take it and the Burke home any day. “Thanks,” he says.

Peter grunts, shifting his weight on the couch. “You look like crap.”

Neal grins a little. Yeah, that’s Peter. “Thanks,” he says a little dryly. “When’s El going to be back?”

“She’s got a gallery opening tonight,” Peter says as he cracks open the lid of a beer. Neal wrinkles his nose at the smell but doesn’t protest. “Hopefully by ten or so. She’s been pretty busy lately.” Peter gives him a sideways glance, opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “You, uh.” He coughs. “You weren’t roughed up, were you?”

Neal suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m a big boy, Peter. I’m just tired.”

“You want to stay here tonight?”

Neal tilts his head to give Peter a quizzical look. Peter meets his gaze steadily, unapologetic for the offer. And it’s true that Neal’s loft in June’s room is familiar to him, with Byron and June’s possessions slowly attuning themselves to his particular signature. At the same time, though, he’s had enough of keeping himself company these past few days. The Burkes’ is more than familiar; it’s home.

“Sure,” he says, feeling something inside of him uncoil, relax. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, not with Natasha, not with the op, not with his commutation. But for now, it doesn’t matter.

“No problem,” Peter says gruffly. He turns on the TV.

“Meeting with Natasha tomorrow,” Neal murmurs.

“I’ll handle it,” Peter says firmly.

“Okay,” Neal says.

Yeah. It’s okay. Peter’ll handle it.

Neal rubs a foot absentmindedly against the anklet and lets his head drop back onto the couch. The weight of the anklet is comforting. Neal knows it inside and out, and he can track the ways that it’s changed: when it was first snapped around his ankle, it was a cop through and through, slightly antagonistic and determined to keep him trapped. Much like Peter, though, it’s changed to something…steady. Still a cop, but one that Neal wouldn’t mind having on his side. It’s a relief to hear its voice again, steady and sure.

He sleeps.

((()))

As always, tomorrow comes a lot faster than expected. All too soon, they’re meeting Natasha in a rather dingy diner. Neal’s actually kind of surprised that she shows up at all, but she doesn’t seem too impressed to see them. It’s strange to see her in a leather jacket and jeans as opposed to some sort of exquisitely tailored dress. The knives are still there, though, and the jacket has room to hide a gun or three.

“Agent Peter Burke,” she says, shaking hands. “And Neal Caffrey, of course.” Clasping her hands in front of her on the table, she looks—well, not innocent, exactly, but demure. The weaponry belies the image somewhat, though. She waits patiently as they seat themselves and order coffees from the waiter, and Neal gets the feeling that even though her eyes are focused on them, she’s acutely aware of everything in the nearby vicinity. “So,” she says once their coffees arrive. “You have thirty minutes, so make them count. What can I do for you?”

“Agent Romanov,” Peter says, and Neal watches Natasha carefully for her reaction to her real name. There’s nothing. Clearly, the game of _I know you know I know_ is rather more advanced than he expected. Peter goes for the kill, not bothering with further pleasantries. “There’s no discussion about this. Carolin goes behind bars.”

Neal winces a little at Peter’s flat opening. Natasha raises an eyebrow, evidently not impressed. “She’s a dangerous woman, even if she’s in jail.”

“What’s in it for SHIELD?” Peter asks, eyes narrowed. “You’ve been undercover for what, a year now? That’s a good amount of time. I looked you up—or at least, I tried to. Official records shut down pretty quickly, but the pipeline says that you don’t do year-long infiltrations for the sheer hell of it. You’ve got other specialties.” He meets Natasha’s gaze squarely, a feat that Neal sits back and privately admires. “What’s stopping you from killing Sophia Carolin?”

Natasha’s expression doesn’t flicker. “You’ve got a good pipeline there, Agent Burke,” she says at last, neutral. Her eyes flicker to Neal.

“Not guilty,” Neal says, raising his hands in protest. “I didn’t even know some of that stuff until he told me. Honest.”

“Hmm,” Natasha says ominously, but at least she turns her attention away from Neal and back to Peter. “Killing Sophia doesn’t achieve our main objective.”

“Which is…?” Peter prompts.

“Aaron Carolin,” Natasha says. “Aaron is close to ninety and fading, so we’re on a rather literal deadline. Aaron’s wealth is currently willed to Sophia. My job is to discredit her so Aaron redirects his wealth to Joseph instead. If we overtly eliminate Sophia, the old man has stated that he will rewrite his will so his fortune goes to his former associates in the weapons trade, which is one of the last things that anyone wants, SHIELD or FBI.”

Peter frowns. “So why Joseph? Why Carolin’s younger son? He’s done some shady work in pharmaceuticals, and that’s even worse than art theft.”

“Plus, he’s got a thirst for revenge,” Neal chimes in. “That cherub had some serious rage issues associated with it.” At Peter’s questioning look, he waves a hand and says, “The rose garden had this big fountain with a cherub in it, it was cracked…it’s complicated. Look, Sophia might not exactly be Mother Theresa, but Joseph makes her look like one in comparison.”

“But that was before his wife fell ill,” Natasha says.

Peter cocks his head. “He’s fallen off the grid as of late, that’s true,” he says slowly. “No activity since about two years ago.”

“His wife is very sick,” Natasha says blandly. “It’s quite tragic. He’s already spent a good part of his business capital in search of a cure.”

Peter’s eyes narrow. “I don’t suppose SHIELD has anything to do with this mystery illness?”

Natasha doesn’t blink. “It’s very unfortunate.”

Neal whistles. “Ouch,” he says. “And you’ve got your pals dangling a cure as bait? Suck away the family inheritance as soon as he gets his paws on it?” Natasha doesn’t say anything, but that means that she’s not denying it, either. Peter’s mouth twists slightly. Neal can admire the scam in it in a detached sort of way, even though analyzing it too closely makes him vaguely sick. “So you’re sucking him dry and then leaving him hopeless,” Neal says. “Wow. That’s…harsh.”

“That’s leverage,” she says dismissively. “Joseph Carolin isn’t clean. None of the Carolin family is. We will take them out; the only question is whether or not the FBI will be involved at all.”

“The FBI has jurisdiction,” Peter snaps.

“And SHIELD overrules it,” Natasha counters.

“We can make things very complicated for you,” Peter says sharply. Neal looks at him with a frown. Peter’s upset, his hands clenched on the edge of the table. “Maybe SHIELD has a way of doing things, but you’re going to have to cooperate with us now.”

“Threats, Agent Burke?” Natasha says. Her voice doesn’t change, but the tension in the air is palpable. Peter leans forward, across the desk, and Neal has the suppress the urge to yell at him move back. There are other people in the diner, true, but he’s willing to bet that Natasha can kill them all without blinking an eye.

Peter clearly senses it too, but he’s not cowed. “I’m sure you can kill me, Agent Romanov,” he says quietly, leaning forward. “I’m sure that you could do it in such a way that I wouldn’t even be aware of it, and that you’d dispose of my body so that I would never be found. But that won’t change the fact that there is a way to do justice right. That way is embodied in my office, my people. Take me out, and another will take my place. We don’t give up.”

Neal finds himself holding his breath. Natasha’s scary as hell, yeah, but in some ways Peter’s even more frightening: he _believes_ in all that stuff, in the integrity of the law and the power of justice and all that good stuff that Neal once considered to be an optional ticky box. Neal made a modified version of this threat earlier, but for Peter it somehow gains a terrifying sincerity that Neal can only hope to fake. It’s real, chillingly so, and Peter _makes_ it real for those around him.

Maybe that’s what draws him back to Peter. Maybe that’s what kept him from Kate and the plane.

Neal forces himself to take a breath. Peter aside, if Natasha decides to get all scary assassin on them, Neal’s got to come up with something she won’t be expecting. He wonders if he can coax the light above them to spontaneously break its cord and bash Natasha in the head. Too bad he never got formal training in controlling objects, he thinks; the control needed to whack things around would be really helpful right now—

“Fine,” Natasha says, interrupting Neal’s fatalistic train of thought. “What do you have in mind?”

“Were you planning to kill Sophia once the old man changed his will?” Peter asks. “Maybe take Aaron and Sophia out of the equation in quick succession so there’s absolutely no chance the will could be changed?”

Natasha shrugs. “I don’t plan these types of things, Agent Burke,” she says. She pauses and then adds, “There’s the possibility that someone else might, though.”

“Okay, fine,” Peter says, looking exasperated. “So ‘someone’ was planning to do that. Well, that ‘someone’ is going to stop planning, because Sophia’s going to face justice under the law. White Collar will apprehend her, and we’ll send her to prison.”

Natasha doesn’t say anything for a moment. “Sophia Carolin is a dangerous woman, even in prison.”

“So are lots of other cons and crooks we’ve caught,” Peter retorts. “But killing them off isn’t the way to solve the problem.”

“But keeping them locked up in close contact with each other while hosting them on the taxpayers’ dime is?” Natasha asks.

“It’s the solution under the law,” Peter says firmly.

“A hundred years ago, it was legal to kill people because of their skin color,” Natasha says, impassive. “Sometimes the law needs to bend, Agent Burke.”

Peter looks at Neal, and it doesn’t take a telepath to know what Peter’s thinking. Neal gives him a shrug and gets a rueful smile in response. “Sometimes it does,” Peter says in a quieter voice as he turns back to Natasha. “But the reasons need to be right.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “So you’re asking me to entrust an international art thief to your sense of right and wrong.”

Neal can’t keep himself from laughing at that. Natasha turns to look at him, and the slight furrow between her eyebrows is absolutely _priceless_. “Yeah, you are,” Neal says, waving a hand. “But of all the people you could trust, Peter’s not so bad.”

“I’m touched,” Peter says, poker-faced.

Neal swears that he can see the corners of Natasha’s mouth twitch just a little bit. “Of course,” she says to Neal. “My mistake.”

“Bad habit for an assassin,” Neal says lightly.

“I make very few, and I fix them afterwards,” she says, but there’s just barely enough humor in her voice that Neal has high hopes for his continued existence. She looks back at Peter, the faint impression of humor fading away. “All right,” she says at last. “Sophia goes to your justice.”

“And Aaron Carolin?”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “What about him?”

“What’re you planning?” Peter asks at length. He doesn’t shy away from asking the question, at least, although part of Neal winces as soon as the words leave his mouth. Ignorance would be kinder, but it’s never been Peter to take the easy path. “Are you going to kill him?”

“The man’s nearly ninety. There are plenty of people who would consider themselves lucky to live to ninety,” she says calmly.

“Like you?” Neal murmurs. He says it quietly, but he winces a little as it comes out a little too loud. Natasha doesn’t react, although he can see the lines on Peter’s face deepen as he frowns.

“What’s the worst he can do?” Peter says finally. “Besides change his will to his pals in the mob?”

“Most people would consider almost a billion dollars in the underground to be problematic,” Natasha answers smoothly. “This point is nonnegotiable, Agent Burke,” she says. “Of the Carolin family, he holds the most blood on his hands. Weapons dealing isn’t for the fainthearted, and he’s more than earned his due.”

Peter sets his jaw. “That’s not how it works. You need to—”

“You have to make compromises, Agent Burke,” Natasha interrupts.

“Dealing with lives like they’re chess pieces?” Peter says harshly.

“But you make deals all the time,” Natasha says. Her voice is gentler, and Neal can recognize the beginning of a con’s patter: watch my hands, listen to my voice, it’ll all work out if you just do as I say. “You offer immunity in exchange for testimony all the time at the FBI, don’t you? Sophia Carolin is yours if you can pin the testimony on her—she does art, mostly, and dangerous or not she’s not quite as bad as her father. But Aaron’s a different story. Arms dealing is violent, and it always ends in blood. Do you really think that bad food and cramped living conditions can repay the slaughter of innocents?”

Peter’s jaw works for a moment, and he seems temporarily at a loss for words. Neal clears his throat. “That’s kind of rich, coming from someone who kills people for a living,” he volunteers.

Natasha turns toward him quickly enough that Neal can’t suppress the shiver that runs through him. “I’m a tool, Mr. Caffrey,” she says, every word calm and clear. “If a hammer hits your thumb, blame the person wielding it, not the hammer itself.”

“That’s complete crap,” Neal says. His heartbeat accelerates as her eyes narrow at him, but he keeps his voice smooth. “Hammers don’t think. You can. Tools can’t bargain, and that’s what you just did—gave Sophia Carolin to prison. You’ve got a choice here, Nata—Agent Romanov.”

Natasha looks at him for a moment. “It’s bold of you to appeal to my morals,” she says at last. “Nice try. Moral people don’t become assassins.”

“But you’re not just any assassin,” Neal presses. “You’re not freelancing to any boss who’ll pay your price. You’re working for SHIELD, which is a government entity that’s presumably on the side of the good guys, which means that you have some sense of what’s right and what’s not.”

Natasha appears to consider this for a moment. “Let me tell you a little story,” she says at last, her voice soft, almost hypnotic. “It’s a story about a little man who wanted to be bigger than he was.”

“I’m not going to like this story, am I?” Neal asks weakly.

Natasha gives him a humorless smile. “This little man wanted to be bigger than he was,” she said. “He was a strange little man. See, he hated a certain group of people who were different from him. The reasons were superficial—aren’t they always? Different colors, different religions, same religions but different beliefs…at any rate, this man didn’t like people who were different from him. And so it happens, he had a couple of friends who thought the same way as he did.”

Neal swallows. “I’m really not going to like this story, huh.”

“So this man decided on a solution, the most obvious one,” Natasha continues, her voice quiet. “He would get rid of those people who were different. But there’s a difference between theory and reality, the clearest one being that reality needs weapons. Big weapons, the kind you can’t just pick up off the street. Sure, a gun will kill a person, quick and clean. But it’s slow and ineffective. Bombs are better. So’s gas, mines, grenades.” She tilts her head. “But you have to find someone special to sell these to you, which is where our friend Aaron comes in.”

She pauses. Peter’s voice is subdued when he next speaks. “Genocide?”

“It happens,” she says, impassive.

“Did Aaron know?” Peter asks, looking lost.

“Yes,” Natasha says. “He knew. He knew each time, because the little men, Agent Burke, are always there. On their own, they can’t do much. But there are always men like Aaron Carolin to help them.”

Neal can hear Peter give a slow, shaky exhale. “How many?” he says after a moment. “I mean…”

Natasha quirks an eyebrow. “Does it matter?” She shakes her head. “Don’t answer that. Agent Burke, you live in a clean world. Be glad it exists. Stay in it. Your law will work where there is civilization, but there are places where it won’t suffice.”

There’s silence all around—Natasha seems perfectly composed, but Neal has to take a moment to reorient himself to the reality, pull himself away from Natasha’s deceptively hypnotic world. He inhales. Exhales. Lets New York reorient his senses. He’s here. This world, at least, has right and wrong. The law stands.

He looks at Peter, who looks shaken. “At least suggest it to whoever pulls the strings,” Neal says.

Natasha shrugs. “I can tell them that. Whether or not they consider it at all is another matter entirely.” She taps her fingers on the table. It looks like fidgeting, but that itself is a lie. Neal gets the feeling that assassins aren’t the fidgeting type. “Your thirty minutes are almost up. Was there anything else?”

Neal looks at Peter. Peter opens his mouth and then closes it again. He pinches the bridge of his nose, looking tired. “Do we have a guarantee on Sophia?” Peter says at last.

Natasha reaches into her pocket and pulls out a flash drive, sliding it across the table to Peter. “I caught him trying to get to these. They’re locked until after SHIELD issues a takedown signal. After that, though, you should be able to get to them.” She looks down and frowns as her cell phone vibrates. Pulling it out, she examines it for a moment before nodding and putting it back into her jacket pocket. “And that’s my cue,” she says. “Gentlemen, it was good doing business with you.”

Peter shakes his head. “We need some more time—”

“No,” she says calmly. “You really don’t. We’re done here.” She pushes her chair back.

Peter stands up, seemingly on automatic, and Neal follows him. “But—” he begins.

It’s a series of accidents. A waiter drops a plate of eggs, Natasha’s chair falls over, and—here’s the important bit—Neal spills his coffee all over Natasha’s shirt.

“Oh, sorry!” Neal yelps, and his voice is a little bit higher at the impending threat of death, well, who can blame him? “Here,” he adds, getting a tissue and dabbing ineffectually at Natasha’s shirt. “Some Resolve should get that right out—”

Natasha puts a hand on his head and pushes him firmly away. “I think I can handle it,” she says.

She doesn’t sound angry, but Neal decides not to press his luck. He backs away.

((()))

Peter’s quiet as they pull out of the diner’s parking lot. Neal knows that he’s brooding, though, and that’s never a good thing to do. “Peter,” he says, trying to get a gauge on Peter’s mood.

Peter shakes his head. “I’m…” he starts, and then trails off. “I don’t do this type of work.”

“What type?”

“I catch criminals, I deliver them to justice. I don’t make bargains with lives like they’re poker chips,” Peter snaps, frustration clear in his voice. “That’s not the way it works.”

“Yeah,” Neal says, “but is Aaron Carolin’s life worth saving? Jail wouldn’t mean much to him. Actually, he’s ninety, I don’t think death would mean much to him, either, but it’s more expedient.”

Peter turns to look at him, almost accusing. “Whose side are you on?”

Neal shakes his head. “Peter, I’m not condoning it,” he says. “It’s just…it’s logical. I can get that, even if I don’t like the morals behind it. But I’m a criminal.” The word tastes strange in his mouth, but he supposes that fastidiousness about that particular label is a right that he doesn’t really have much claim to. “And I’ve run with people who wouldn’t mind killing over the dumbest of reasons. Or actually, no reason at all. At least this way there’s some sort of justice.”

“This isn’t justice,” Peter says harshly.

“Aaron Carolin’s had quite a retirement. You said yourself—nobody could pin anything on him, not for sure. If there’s karma, he sure escaped it.”

“So he should be brought to—” Peter stops, shaking his head. “But we can’t, because we’ve never been able to get anything more than circumstantial evidence. And if he’s associated with genocide…”

“Yeah, kind of puts things in perspective, huh,” Neal says softly.

Peter’s fingers are clenched tight around the steering wheel. “I’ve killed people before,” Peter says at last. “People who were trying to kill me, usually. But it was all in the heat of the moment, it was self-defense, it was—it was _justified_.”

“According to FBI rules,” Neal says. “But that’s what she’s saying, Peter. There’s a world in which the law is fine. That’s yours. Then there’s my world, which makes the law into—”

“Something that’s there but you don’t pay much attention to?” Peter suggests.

“Something like that, yeah,” Neal says with a nod. “But then you go deeper and deeper. First it’s petty crime, then it’s the local mob boss, then it’s the mafia, and then, well, it’s a small step to supplying tinpot dictatorships. I guess at that point, the rules don’t apply. Not the rules of the civilized world, anyway.”

Peter sighs. “Maybe that’s true, but what’s to stop it all from descending into anarchy? Every man for himself, the one with the most guns wins?”

Neal gives a one-sided shrug. “SHIELD, I guess. And SHIELD’s a government agency, sort of, so they’re ruled by…the people? If you’re an optimist in the spirit of democracy, sure. Government means law, though, or least some semblance of it. So it goes round and round. Law rules anarchy, but anarchy trumps law. And somewhere in there, you get justice.”

Peter smiles at him ruefully. “You missed your calling as a philosopher, Neal.”

“I really doubt philosophy would pay me what I’m used to,” Neal answers.

“What, you mean your generous government stipend?”

“Ha ha. And also, ha.”

“Well, at least philosophy presents a significantly lowered chance of orange jumpsuits,” Peter says. And it sounds normal—their usual teasing, that easy camaraderie that Neal hadn’t known he wanted until he had it. But Peter’s hands are still gripped tight around the steering wheel, and the tension still lays thick in the air. Neal rubs his forehead, willing the hostility to go away.

It doesn’t.

“At least we get Sophia, right?” Neal says as the silence stretches on. “That’s something to cheer for. It’s proof that the law works, at least for this sort of crime.”

“Sophia’s good,” Peter says. “But it’s…I don’t know. Once you start making exceptions, it doesn’t stop.”

“You made an exception for me,” Neal points out.

Peter gives him a sideways look. “There’s a difference between a lawful work-release and an illegal assassination, Neal,” he points out sharply. “Arranging Aaron Carolin’s murder—that’s not right.”

“True,” Neal says. “But morally speaking, is it really all that wrong?”

“We’re talking about murder,” Peter says. “That doesn’t bother you?”

Neal sighs. “I don’t like dead bodies,” he says after a moment. “But that applies to the people who mass-produce them, too.”

Peter snorts. “Aaron Carolin coldly stood by and arranged deaths. Aren’t you doing the same?” he challenges. Peter’s… _angry_ , Neal realizes, and the realization slices through him like a knife. Peter’s next words only serve to make it worse. “You might not have caused deaths directly, but you were planning to profit off them with the Nazi treasure. So is this the next step? What makes you different from him?”

A chill shudders down Neal’s spine. The treasure. Of course it would come back to that. Peter’s angry, and it doesn’t help that the environment compounds his emotions, buzzing until Neal can barely focus. He’s not unfamiliar with the sensation, but it hurts to feel something like that from Peter. Something coalesces in Neal’s stomach, something small and hard and cold. Unconsciously, his arms draw defensively around him as if he can ward off Peter’s rage. It seems like an impossible goal to accomplish. He’s done some dumb things, not the least of which was hiding the treasure, but he’d been willing to give it up twice over for Peter and El. But now—

Does Peter really believe that of him?

“I don’t know,” he says quietly. “Why don’t you tell me?”

To his credit, Peter seems to regret his words almost immediately. He drives on silence for a little while longer before clearing his throat and saying, “Neal. That was—I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s fine,” Neal says.

“I was upset.”

“You are.”

Peter doesn’t say anything for a moment. Neal rubs his temples and sighs. He’s too goddamn tired of this to hold a grudge. Uncurling slightly, he looks around: out the window, at the mirror, anywhere but directly at Peter. They’re not too far from June’s place.

“Pull over,” Neal says. As Peter begins to protest, Neal shakes his head and holds up a hand. “I can walk home. Go home. El’s probably wondering where you’ve gone.”

“Look, Neal,” Peter begins.

“I’m not mad,” Neal interrupts. And he’s not, not really, just…tired. “I just need to be alone for a while, all right?” He smiles a little, trying to soften it. The smile feels plastic on his face, though, and it couldn’t fool a monkey, let alone Peter.

Peter looks lost. Neal looks away, uneasy with seeing that look on Peter’s face. It doesn’t suit him, not at all. “Don’t do anything stupid,” Peter says finally. “And call me when you get back to June’s.”

“Will do,” Neal says. He opens the car door and gets out, heading down the street without looking back. He’s still acutely aware of Peter’s car when it passes, and for a moment he misses the security that Peter can offer.

He doesn’t acknowledge it, though. Instead, he focuses on a silver Porsche that’s a few blocks behind him. He’s not surprised when, at the next red light, it stops next to him and the passenger door swings open.

He gets in.

((()))

“Subtle,” Natasha says. “You’re a better thief than I thought, Caffrey. Clearly I should stop underestimating you.”

Neal smiles a little ruefully as he pulls out Natasha’s phone he’d lifted during the spill earlier in the diner. “I needed to get your attention.”

Natasha doesn’t take her eyes off the road as she reaches out and plucks the phone from his fingers. He surrenders it without a fight (not that he could put up much of one, really) and watches as she glances briefly at the screen before turning back to the road. “Mission accomplished,” she says. “Now give me a reason why I shouldn’t boot you out right here and now.”

“People would notice?” Neal says meekly.

“This is New York City,” Natasha retorts. “I doubt people would care.”

“I don’t know about that,” Neal says, but it’s a pretty weak reply and they both know it. “Look, our conversation ended kind of abruptly earlier—”

“Because I’m busy,” Natasha interrupts pointedly. “I still have a cover to keep, Caffrey. So if you’ve got something important to say, say it fast. Your little stunt bought you about ten minutes, because that’s how long it’ll take me to plow through this traffic.”

“Ah,” Neal murmurs. He grips the grab handle, trying to be surreptitious about it. Peter’s a bit of a maniac driver, but Neal’s willing to bet that Natasha could give him a run for his money. He swallows and cuts to the chase. “Peter’s a good guy,” he says. “He really believes in all that stuff he does, and it’s one of the most annoying things ever. And one of the best.” He shakes his head. “He’s killed in self-defense, but making cold-blooded calculations about lives isn’t his thing.” _As I learned_ , he adds mentally. _And I can only hope it’s not mine, either.._

“It’s mine,” Natasha says almost absently.

“Yeah, I pretty much figured,” Neal murmurs.

She throws him a sharp glance. “I hadn’t thought it would be yours, though.”

Neal looks down. “I’m a thief,” he says slowly, rolling the words around in his mouth, tasting them. They feel…not awkward, exactly, not like _criminal_ , but not exactly familiar, either. “I’m used to walking on the shadier side of the law.”

“There are levels of darkness,” Natasha says, and it sounds oddly like a warning. “There’s a difference between cash and lives, although some people tend to get the equivalence exchange wrong.”

“Aaron Carolin being one of them?”

“Among others,” Natasha says.

“And you spend your life killing these people?”

“Among other things.” She drums her fingers on the steering wheel. “What’re you after, Neal?”

It should feel like an intrusion, but his name sounds natural coming from her lips—matter-of-fact, professional assassin to professional thief. “You have to kill Aaron Carolin because otherwise his will won’t get executed, right?” he says. “You can’t drain Joseph of Aaron’s money if he doesn’t actually have the cash.”

She inclines her head. “That’s one of the reasons. Another being that he’s more than lived his fair share, and while I’m not one to make judgments ordinarily, I think that a kill order in his case is only karma.”

Neal takes a breath and looks up at the night sky, dotted with stars. “You mentioned a deadline,” he says after a moment. “How close is he to…”

“He’s ninety,” she says. “Fading, somewhat. He’s hired himself a damn good healer, though, so he’s clinging on longer than his organs would suggest.”

“I guess you wouldn’t really consider just letting him kick off on his own?”

Natasha doesn’t say anything for a moment. “Why are you so intent on saving him?” she asks finally. “Frankly, there are multitudes of people who would be able to more appreciate your efforts.”

Neal shrugs a little helplessly. “Because…” _Because I’m not that guy._ “It just seems cold.”

The corners of her mouth turn up in a humorless quirk. “Most things are. If it makes you feel any better, it’ll be quick.”

It doesn’t, not really. He gets the feeling that she’s toying with him, just a little bit.

“It’s not your decision,” she says after a moment. Her voice is gentler this time. “Tell the truth, it isn’t mine, either. I can put forth your concerns. That’s all I can do.”

Neal snorts. “You’re just that powerless, right? Because that’s how you decided Sophia’s fate.”

“Sophia and Aaron play in very different circles,” she says. “That determines who determines their fate.”

Neal groans a little, rubbing a hand over his eyes. Assassin politics. That’s one thing he’d never figured that he’d get involved in, seeing as his MO up until fairly recently was “run like hell and hope they don’t catch you”. “Oh,” he says softly, the word a resigned acknowledgement. “Okay.”

He’s aware of her gaze on him, but it’s hard to face it. It feels cowardly, giving up like this, but at the same time, he can’t figure out what he’s supposed to do. He feels dirty, almost, like he’s proved Peter’s hypothesis right. But what is he supposed to do? Wills can’t be executed unless the willer dies, and Aaron Carolin probably isn’t the type to hand over cash before he’s in the grave. Maybe not even after, if he’s looked into pharoah-style burials. Neal rubs the bridge of his nose and exhales slowly. He’s met some pretty nasty people before, pulled some tricky cons. This, though, goes deeper than anything he’s ever done before.

“Okay,” he repeats, more for his own assurance than hers. “I’ll just…yeah.”

Abruptly, Natasha pulls over. She parks the car on the shoulder of the road, ignoring the angry horns of the other drivers and slamming the car into parking mode. That done, she turns to look at Neal, her gaze sharp and unforgiving. Neal scrambles, trying to figure out a last-minute solution. The will can’t be executed without a death certificate. The money needs to be siphoned. Aaron Carolin is no saint…

There’s the slightest flicker of movement from the corner of his eye. Neal looks up. “Well?” Natasha says. There’s no smugness in her voice, no gloating. Just polite inquiry, which somehow makes it all that much worse.

“Joseph,” Neal rasps, his mind blank.

“The brother? Yes. What about him?”

Neal takes a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. “What happens to him once he’s been sucked dry?”

She raises an eyebrow, evidently considering. “He’s been out of the game long enough,” she says after a moment. “There’s no need to eliminate him. He’ll live. You can tell Agent Burke that.”

“Yeah, but living isn’t everything,” Neal says softly. “His wife, the one who’s sick. What did you guys do to her?”

“So suspicious,” she says.

“Oh, so you’re seriously telling me that SHIELD had nothing to do with it?” Neal asks heatedly.

“I’m a good liar, but I’ll refrain from trying that one on you,” she says, and there’s the faintest note of humor in her voice. She pauses for a moment before she answers, her words slow and deliberate. “She’s got induced kidney failure and heart strain. She’s had two attacks in the past year and looks set to have a few more, hanging on for dear life unless a miracle cure is introduced.”

Neal bites his lip. “Is it reversible?” he asks after a moment.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” She tilts her head, gazing at him. “You’re very sentimental, aren’t you.”

It’s not a question.

Neal ignores the statement and its implications, pushing doggedly to get to the details. “Did she have anything to do with Joseph Carolin’s business?” he demands, feeling something low and tight churn in his gut. “Did she know what was going on or…”

She shrugs. “Does it matter? He loved her. Still loves her. That’s something to be exploited. He would have done worse in the past couple years to countless others if he’d still been in the pharmaceuticals game. Love’s an opening, so we took it.”

He lets out a cracked laugh. It’s not quite bitter, but it’s close. “Wow,” he says. “You really have no boundaries, do you? What if she was innocent? And your pals made her sick—”

“Nobody’s innocent,” she says, and for the first time, she sounds impatient. “If she didn’t know the details, it was because she turned a blind eye.” She makes a sound that’s not quite a snort, but it carries the same undertones of disgust. It’s one of the most human things he’s heard from her so far. “She was infatuated with a man and refused to see who he really was. That’s love for you.”

“A weakness?” Neal says tightly.

“Precisely.” Silence. “You’re upset.”

“Seems kind of heartless, that’s all,” he says after a moment.

“I’m an assassin,” she replies with a shrug. “Heartlessness is a virtue in my line of work. Yours too. Don’t tell me that you stole people’s treasures because you bled empathy for them.”

“No,” he says. That’s true; he hadn’t really given a thought to the previous owners of the Nazi treasure—or any treasure, for that matter—unless it was to enhance the provenance and value. But he’s not devoid of empathy, either. “I can understand being a fool for love,” he says at last. “It makes you do things you’d never thought you’d do. It…”

He’d loved Kate. He went to prison for her, stole a music box for her, almost killed Fowler for her. What he had with Sara wasn’t _quite_ the same, but he’d almost spilled his and Moz’s secret and asked her to run away with him. For Peter and El…well, he _had_ spilled the secret, no almost about it there. He’s danced with June, pulled cons for Moz, built a life here that he hadn’t known he could have.

“Hurts?” she fills in after a moment.

Neal looks at her carefully, scrutinizing what he can see of her expression. It’s smooth and calm, the only change a faint arch of an eyebrow. But that’s not the only way he can watch her, and he turns his attention instead to the objects she’s wearing: black sweatpants, a tank top and a light brown leather jacket, worn and familiar to his senses.

She’s not the only one who’s been wrapped in that jacket before.

“Yeah,” he admits softly. “But it’s good, too.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment. “It’s a diversion,” she says finally.

“Yeah,” he says, “but an important one.”

“I don’t do philosophy or daydreaming,” she says dismissively. “Doesn’t work out in my line of work.”

“Yeah, it’s not my career choice either,” Neal says. “But I’m finding a lot more lately that a little philosophy never hurts.”

“Everything in moderation, love included,” she murmurs. “That’s a good ideal to live by. I’m not sure if that can properly apply to my area of expertise, though.”

“So why do you do it?” he asks, and then holds his breath as he realizes what he’s asking. “I mean, not trying to psychoanalyze you or anything, I swear. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

She shrugs. “Does it matter? It’s what I’m good at. And you seem increasingly determined to keep me from it, may I add.”

“You planning to off me for being too mouthy?” he says, and then wonders at his own recklessness. Maybe it’s that jacket she’s wearing: unlike the gorgeous dresses, designer scarves, and expensive shoes, that jacket is real. It’s what she wears when she’s comfortable and doesn’t have to hide, which is rare. It’s been draped over a friend in moments of vulnerability, passed between the two of them when there’s no need for boundaries. He reaches out to it and brushes over it with mental fingers, taking reassurance from its presence.

“Don’t tempt me,” she says. “You’re going to cause more headaches than you’re worth, I can tell already.”

“My charm can’t be measured in gold,” Neal tells her loftily, and he grins a little bit as she gives out a huff that could maybe, under the right circumstances, be described as laughter.

“Clearly,” she says. “Seeing as I’m not silencing you, although I really probably should.” She looks at him, her gaze measuring him up. “You’ve got the devil’s own luck, Neal.”

She sounds…well, not quite wistful, but close. “Yeah,” Neal admits. “I kind of do.” He clears his throat, returning her look. “Any of that luck ever spill to you? I mean, somebody’s got to know their way around you, right?” He pauses. “I mean…not that way. Unless you want it to be. But, you know, everybody’s got to have off days, even master assassins.”

Natasha casts him a sideways glance. “Are you propositioning me? I thought we were past this.”

“Me?” Neal says, honestly surprised. “Oh. No. I, uh, I’m not as much of an asshole as I was in our first meeting, I swear. That was an alias working, and, uh, when I start shielding I can get kind of carried away.” He pauses, aware that he’s probably giving away too many tricks of the trade, but hell, he’s asking for her secrets and it’s only fair to reciprocate. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“How generous of you,” she says archly.

“Hey, I can be generous! Really. If you look beyond the whole alleged-ripping-people-off bit.”

She studies him for a moment, and he lets her search his face for whatever she needs. He feels strangely vulnerable, stripped of his usual conman mask. But then again, it never worked that well on her in the first place, did it?

“It’s nice to relax every once in a while,” she says, and her words are cautious—not because she’s afraid of spilling too much, Neal thinks, but because she’s not sure how to phrase it. “Diversions can be…enjoyable.”

“That’s what they’re for,” Neal says, gently teasing.

“Mmm,” Natasha says, sounding distant.

“So who—”

“Don’t push it,” she says, but she sounds amused.

“Okay,” he says peaceably. “No more questions.”

“I’ve got one for you,” she says after a moment.

“Oh yeah? Go ahead.”

“What’s your goal here? What’re you trying to win?” she asks, watching him intently.

Neal stutters to a halt, his brain whirring in circles. He’s shed his conman exterior, and now he scrambles to get it back, to return to some semblance of equilibrium. “Um,” he says after a moment. “I don’t know. I don’t know if there’s a…” he rubs the back of his neck, thinking. “When I first did the whole work-release thing, I wanted to find Kate. That was it, that was the plan—find her and get the hell out of Dodge. But then she…” he tries on a smile for size, but it feels awkward. “Died. Yeah. And then I got a new deal, did some good work, I guess, but then there was this conspiracy with this music box, and long story short, I got the lure of a lifetime. Did I want to go? A part of me, yeah, I guess. But at the same time, Peter’s…Peter’s steady, and that’s something that I want to keep. And now there’s my commutation coming up, I guess you probably know that if you stole my file, and…I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

Natasha’s quiet for a while. “Oh.”

Neal laughs awkwardly. “Yeah.”

“I actually wanted to know what else you wanted from me regarding the Carolins,” she says. “But I guess that works, too.”

Neal blinks. “Ohhh,” he says. He looks at her, and there’s a hint of amusement in her eyes. “Oh…kay. Wow. And that was too much information, huh?”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m trained to be very good at information extraction. Although I suppose it wasn’t very difficult in your case,” she says.

“Probably not,” Neal admits.

“Well, it could be worse.”

“But there is something I want,” Neal says slowly. “I mean, you were right. About the Carolins. There’s something for Joseph, too.”

“You _really_ would not make a good assassin,” Natasha says. “What is it?”

“His wife,” he says. “Take the guy’s cash, sure, that’s a smart con. But at the end, she gets better. Give him back his love, at least. By that point, he’s more than paid for it.”

Natasha considers it for a moment. “That’s not unreasonable,” she says slowly. “A transplant or two, some psychic healing, the best medicine money can buy. I can’t guarantee anything, but it should be doable.” She flicks him a glance. “I’ll have to run it by my superiors, but there’s a good chance they’ll approve it.”

“Oh,” Neal says, feeling a bit surprised at the lack of resistence. “Okay. Good.” I mean…that’s fair. That’s…” he stops.

 _Justice_. The word doesn’t quite fit, not perfectly. But for today, he feels that it’s close enough.

Natasha’s gaze is knowing, almost as if she can read his thoughts. “How does Agent Burke feel about all this?” she asks after moment. “Does he know that you’re here?”

Neal tugs up the leg of his pants to reveal the green light of the anklet. Natasha looks at it, unsurprised. “Physically? Yeah,” Neal says. “Whether or not he knows if I’m meeting with you, though, I have no idea. I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s smarter than he looks.”

“He’s a good man,” Natasha agrees. “We could use more good men in this world.”

“Yeah,” Neal says softly. “I guess I’m trying to be one, too.” He feels terrifyingly vulnerable sharing this, but he has the feeling that Natasha will understand.

She doesn’t disappoint. “That’s an ambitious goal,” she says. “But as they go, they’re not that bad.”

“What’re yours?” Neal blurts, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

She’s quiet, and for a moment Neal thinks that she isn’t going to answer. Finally, though, she says, “Surviving. In every way.”

“That’s not that bad, either,” Neal says.

She doesn’t say anything in reply, her eyes unfocused and fixed on some faraway point. Neal lets the moment play out, watching as she takes the journey to whatever memory she’s replaying. He finds himself hoping that it’s a good one, that she finds whatever she’s looking for. Even assassins have off days, after all.

It seems all too soon before she shakes her head, refocusing on reality. “I can’t promise anything,” she says at last. “But I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you,” Neal says softly.

“Now, you need to leave before I’m missed,” she adds, her tone turning brisk. “I’m already late.”

Neal nods. “All right.” He opens the door. “I guess I won’t see you around.”

“Probably not.” She hesitates, and then adds, “But it was enlightening to meet you, Neal.”

He inclines his head in reply as he exits the car.

((()))

He doesn’t mind the walk home. New York City isn’t for everyone, but he’s always loved the streets, the people, the culture. Maybe that’s what drew him back again and again even when he ran all over the world running cons. He’s not so sure that’s why he’s staying this time around, though he suspects he’ll find out.

He enters June’s house. It’s a day for omniscience, it seems, because to his complete and utter lack of surprise, June’s housekeeper tells him that he’s got a visitor. Neal thanks her absently and moves up the stairs. He can sense Peter before he opens the door. Peter’s got his cell-phone out, and Neal knows without looking that Peter’s been fiddling with it for the past hour or so, wanting—but resisting—the temptation to look up Neal’s anklet. It’s a gesture, and Neal appreciates what it means.

Peter looks up. “It doesn’t take an hour to walk here,” he says, but the words are cautious. “What happened?”

The question is interrogative. The tone is not. Neal shrugs out of his suit jacket and lays it carefully over the back of a chair. He can’t lie, but he supposes with time he could stitch together a suitable fiction from the truth. Neal considers this option for a second or so before discarding it. “I met up with Natasha again,” he says. “We talked.”

Peter wants more, Neal knows, but he doesn’t feel like volunteering. Peter opens his mouth, presumably to ask the question, _about what_? Neal waits for it, resigned.

“How’re you holding up?” Peter says instead, and Neal looks at him, startled.

“Fine,” Neal manages after a moment.

Peter nods. “Listen, Neal, about earlier…”

Neal stops him with a gesture. “Yeah, I know,” he says. And he does know, except that he doesn’t. “Peter, about the treasure,” he says haltingly. “I…I can’t say I didn’t want to, because I did. But what I have here…it’s worth more. You know that, right?”

Peter watches him, eyes steady. “Yes,” he says. “And you’re not even remotely like Aaron Carolin. You’re not a killer.

Neal knew that. Obviously he knew that. It still feels nice to get that confirmation from Peter’s lips, though. The cold ball of ice in his stomach starts to melt, just a little bit. “My ego isn’t that fragile,” Neal jokes, though it falls a little flat under the weight of the truth. It’s true that he’s been called worse things, but those insults were generally lobbied by worse people. Neal’s no saint, no Robin Hood, but there are some depths he won’t sink to. _Can’t_ sink to.

“I like this world,” he murmurs. Peter looks at him quizzically, and Neal can’t help grinning a little. He probably sounds crazy, but hell, his barriers are down and the only one here to watch him fall apart is Peter. What does he have to lose? “White collar,” he clarifies for Peter. “Being here, not…”

“Yeah, the Carolins are a piece of work,” Peter agrees.

That’s not exactly what Neal meant, but it’s close enough.

“As soon as we get Sophia Carolin, we’ll be closing this case,” Peter says. He adds quietly, “Think you’ll see Agent Romanov again?”

“Probably not,” Neal says absently. “She’s doing secret agent stuff for SHIELD, I’m here at the FBI.” He shrugs. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind crossing paths with her provided that she’s not trying to kill me, but…probably not.”

Peter nods, settling back.

They sit in companionable silence for a while. Neal watches the sunset through the windows and lets his thoughts wander. He’s (allegedly) forged some of the greatest landscape scenes of the past couple centuries, but there’s nothing quite like the real thing. And he’s probably biased, but New York City probably has one of the finest sunsets in the world.

“Getting late,” Peter says at last. “You got anything in mind for dinner?”

Neal looks at him. “Not particularly,” he says, puzzled. “I don’t have anything in the fridge, anyway. Just back from undercover and all that. Takeout, I guess?”

“Come over for dinner,” Peter suggests. “El’s going to be relaxing as she’s just finished that gallery job. And I guess we’ve more or less wrapped this up. That’s something to celebrate.”

Neal jumps up. “Sure,” he says. He grabs his jacket and slides it on, grabbing a bottle of wine (the good kind) on his way to the door. _There’s nowhere else I’d rather be_ , he adds silently as he follows Peter out.

He smiles. It feels good. More than that, it feels _real_.

**Author's Note:**

> So this was supposed to be an ensemble case!fic, with appearances from a bunch of characters from both canons. Somewhere along the way, though, Peter muscled his way in and got a much bigger role than he was supposed to, Tony Stark got tired of waiting and ran off to play with robots, and this turned into a much more closely character-focused piece. Bzuh? I'm honestly not sure how that one happened. This is unbeta'd, so any mistakes are mine alone, mea culpa. Anyway, thanks for reading!


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